Freed from Darkness: A Prologue
by Jeely
Summary: The young Freed is a prisoner in his own home, being trained to take over his family's guild through force. This is the story of his descent into darkness and eventual salvation at the hands of a Thunder God. M, Angst/Horror, violence.
1. Chapter 1

What would it be like to see the sun, to feel the grass beneath your feet? To see someone smile? These questions, and several others like them, swirled through Freed Justine's mind as he sat on a stone windowsill, gazing upon a waning moon. The dim light offered by Earthland's only satellite illuminated the grounds of a sturdy manor, one more suited to being a stronghold than an actual home. For all his fourteen years, the green-haired boy on his balcony had not once set foot outside this home; for him, it was more akin to a prison.

Yamuna Manor was the dwelling of the notorious dark guild Yami Yama, known also as the Lords of the Underworld, a title befitting the man who called himself Master. Terrel Justine was the third in the Justine line to inherit this guild and the magic that came with it. A ruthless man, Terrel kept a tight stranglehold on his family, guild, and the activities of those guilds affiliated with his. Under Justine's rule, Yami Yama had everything; power, wealth, infamy, the fear and loyalty of the underworld, everything that a dark mage could want. At this point in his life, Terrel's only goal was to ensure a stable future for his guild. This he sought to accomplish by training his only son in the dark script magic that ran in his family. If he could only raise Freed to be as strong and ruthless as he, then Yami Yama's future would be left in good hands. Unfortunately, there was but one problem.

Freed had yet to attain his demon form.  
The young mage-in-training, huddled against the cold of the night, refused to cooperate during his lessons. It's too difficult, he would say; too cruel, too frightening. Yami no Ecriture: Fear, Pain, Suffering, even Death… What person in their right mind would ever use such magic? At least, his mother taught him it was wrong to hurt people. It was this hesitation that always landed Freed in trouble. Today would be no exception. The slight pinkening of the sky and the distant sound of footsteps on stone alerted Freed to the day that was about to begin anew.

The boy jumped off the windowsill and with practiced silence made his way back to his quarters, a cramped room with bare walls and only that furniture which was deemed essential; a small basin for bathing, a plain chest for storing clothes, and a thin cot to sleep in. No sooner than he had jumped in his cot and stilled its swinging did a knock come at his door.  
"Hey, boy, wake up and get dressed!" came a gruff voice after the knocking stopped. "Your training starts in an hour!" The messenger stayed no longer, and Freed waited until the reatreating footsteps died down before rising.

Another day of training and punishment, another step on the path of dark wizardy, marching inexorably toward a fate he didn't want. But to dawdle would lead to an even worse punishment, so Freed steeled himself for the trials ahead and followed after the messenger. Might as well get it over with quickly and hope for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

The dawning came with little incident. What was once a slumbering estate soon became a hive of activity as the Justine family and its numerous disciples rose to go about their business. A heavy-set man who appeared to be in his thirties strode down one of Yamuna Manor's anterior halls with the gait of one who would rather be anywhere else. Everything from his receding grey-green hair and unshaven, misshapen jaw to the stiff-pressed uniform and well-worn whip at his side spoke of a resentful man dissatisfied with his position in life. Instructor Doran Justine, brother to the Master of Yami Yama, was the man tasked with raising the heir to the guild. For him, this assignment was more of an obligation than anything he wanted to waste his time on. Even so, Doran was thorough in his work, and first on his program for the day was breakfast.

The instructor made his way to a wide empty storeroom off the side of the kitchen to meet his nephew and begin the day. There he found Freed, adorned in his usual rags, already waiting cross-legged on the floor. Doran's sour expression did not improve any at that sight; he would have liked any excuse to beat the kid senseless, but as they were both here, he settled for taking his place at the head of the room to start the lesson.

"You know the drill, you get your food if you can take it from me. You don't know what's outside these walls. It's a harsh world out there!" It was around this point Freed stopped listening. It was the same speech, every day. He could recite it in his sleep by now; you gotta fight to live, and live off what you take. Fight tooth and nail or starve. The strong will prosper, and the weak shall perish.  
More like the strong will go on to be humongous dicks…

"Freed!" Instructor Doran said, snapping the mage-in-training from his rumination. "Were you daydreaming again, you little shit?"  
"N-No, sir!" the boy hastened to respond. "I was listening.."  
"Like hell you were. Then what was I just saying?" A whip stretched menacingly between the instructor's curled fists, a clear threat of what was to come should his student answer poorly.  
"You were extolling the virtues of strength in the pursuit of personal gain, at the expense of those too weak to fend for themselves," Freed answered on reflex. While not as specific as he might like, Doran could find no fault in it; that was, in essence, the lesson he was trying to teach.

"You think you're some real hot shit, don't you?" he growled, advancing on his student. Freed flinched back instinctively, but the expected punishment never came. Instead, the instructor leaned down until he was even with Freed's ear and said in a low whisper, "You got one more chance, kid. If you wanna eat, then I'd better be laying on the floor in a pool o' my own blood in the next five minutes." With that warning delivered, the lesson began. Doran leaped back and  
lashed out with his whip, leaving Freed with a split second to stand and jump to the side. His bare feet scraped across the hardwood floor as Doran struck once more, forcing Freed to again lunge to the side, but this time the splinters in his heels caused him to stumble and fall. He caught himself with a clumsy somersault and came to a crouching stop, cringing at the sharp sting in his feet.  
"Enough running around, ya little bastard! Defend yourself!" the instructor's taunting voice rang across the room as he raised his arm above his head, preparing to deliver another blow.

The mage-in-training hastened to comply, holding his hand out in front of him and summoning the runes that would be the base of his magic. He need only pull up the images of what he wanted inflicted upon his target, put enough force behind the word to make his will reality..  
"Y-Yami no Ecriture-!" Freed's voice cracked and faltered as he progressed through the incantation, unable to utter the last word.  
He couldn't do it.

Pain. Bright and searing pain burst to life in Freed's right shoulder, elliciting a delayed, shuddering yelp that the boy tried to bite short. Doran's whip came to a rest in a coil on the floor, hardly satisfied by the blood it drew from the fresh gash.  
"Che, some pathetic excuse for a mage you are…" the older man muttered, every word dripping with disdain. "Couldn't even last a minute. What are we supposed to do with such a worthless piece of shit heir, eh?"  
"I-I'm sorry, I tried-" Freed's groveling was cut short by a foot to the face; Doran, fed up with his student's failure, had walked up to the boy, leaned back on one heel, and planted his other boot right in Freed's face. He followed through by shifting his weight forward to push Freed to the floor, maintaining an even pressure on his student's forehead.  
"Shut it!" he shouted, his face morphing into a mask of rage. "I don't want to hear another damn excuse from you.." Doran leaned down as he spoke and ground his heel down. Freed clenched his eyes shut and swatted ineffectually at his uncle's leg, the pressure causing lights to pop in his skull.

"Oh, so you're gonna struggle, are ya?" Doran asked slowly, a keen tone of delight creeping into his voice. With an emerging grin he stepped off his student and took a couple paces back.  
"No!" Freed began to protest, now more panicked. "I wasn't! I…"  
"On your knees, off with your shirt, and face the wall, boy. You 'n I are gonna have some fun." Doran's gleeful tone brooked no room for argument. Freed could do nothing but obey. The boy rose to a sitting position before pivoting around to face away from his uncle. With trembling hands he pulled his tattered shirt off over his head and hugged it to his chest. A single dry sob escaped him, the only indication that he knew what was to come.  
"There ya go, Freed. That's a good boy. Maybe next time you'll get your shit straight and we won't have to do this again… maybe." Doran's hand clenched around the grip of his whip and swiveled around at his hip as he drew it above his head once more.

In a flash, he swung forward and delivered a vicious lash across his nephew's back, cutting clean from neck to hip. Again and again he struck until the leather became a blur in the air and drops of blood spattered against the floor.

Freed was unconscious before the tenth blow.

Several hours passed before anyone thought to check on the boy. He woke in the guild's infirmary, his back still stinging from the numerous crisscrossing gashes he received that morning. A tight wrapping of gauze about his shoulders and midsection made breathing difficult and seemed to snag on the shoddy stitching in his wounds; no doubt he would have bled out by now had it not been for the minimal treatment. Voices floated about the room, filtering in and out of his consciousness, a steady murmuring that almost lulled him back to sleep. It wasn't until he heard a particular tone of distress in his mother's voice that Freed snapped to attention, making a concerted effort to steady his breathing and keep his eyes shut to remain undetected.

"You _can't_!" she cried, her shrill voice coming from the bedside. "Look at him, he's injured! The poor boy probably can't even stand! Are you trying to get your son killed?  
"Enough, Therese," a more stern voice that sent chills down Freed's spine came from the other side of the room. His father was here. "The boy treats his studies like a joke. He already slept through both his combat and weapons training today. If we coddle him like this every time he scrapes his knee, he'll never get anywhere."  
"Scraped his… Terrel, he was whipped! That isn't-"  
"I said _enough_!" Terrel snapped, earning an audible gasp from his wife. "This has gone on long enough! I will oversee his lessons personally tomorrow, and you are going to help me, woman. Doran, get this brat back to his room and give him his books; he's not to sleep until he finishes reading."  
"Yes, sir," Doran, who had been silent up to this point, responded.

The sound of the door opening and closing alerted Freed that his father had left. Rough hands sliding under his back were the only warning he had before he was lifted off his bed and tossed over his uncle's shoulder. The abrupt movement jostled his eyes open, and the last thing he saw was his mother's tear-streaked face watching him get carried away before the medical ward's door shut behind them. He was carried down several long halls and up a few flights of stairs, before they eventually arrived at the bleak stone corridor that led to his quarters. There, Doran threw Freed to the floor, followed by a bag of books that caught him in the chest. The mage-in-training winced when he hit the stone, almost certain he'd pulled some of his stitches on his landing.

"Oh, you're awake, are ya? Bout damn time," the old instructor said, just now noticing that his charge was awake. "Read those. You'll need every bit of it. Your daddy's gonna be the one taking care of you tomorrow, so don't go skimping!" And without waiting for any response, Doran retreated, slamming the door shut behind him. There was a loud clack as the lock was fastened and his laughter reverberated down the hall, slowly fading away.

Something had that man happy, and whatever it was, it couldn't bode well for Freed. Pushing his apprehension aside, the boy dug into the bag that lay beside him and pulled out the first book. His back stung, his limbs were heavy, he hadn't eaten in days, and the prospect of facing his father in the morning frightened him to no end, but – as usual – to disobey would lead to even greater punishment.

It was nearly dawn by the time he finished reading and finally drifted off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Freed awoke in pain, the gashes from the previous day made themselves known with a piercing urgency. He stifled a low groan and slowly rolled over to relieve the pressure on his back, but immediately regretted that decision when the movement tore some of his stitches out, reopening several of his wounds. The steady ache was replaced by a blinding lance of agony that had him crying out wordlessly for help that refused to come. Instead, a sharp rapping registered dully through his clouded mind.  
"Hey boy, Wake up already! Training's in the Master's study today!"

Morning. He'd lost most of his night to studying. It took a couple of minutes for Freed's mind to catch up with him, and by then the messenger had already left. He raised himself from the floor and stumbled toward the door, his body protesting every inch of the way. Crisscrossing, crusted bloodstains on his ragged shirt caused the garment to cling to his body, but he had no time to change into whatever other pile of rags he could find laying around. Were he to be late Doran would only whip him again, so the boy pressed into the hall and let his feet carry him to the study. A strange order, but there never seemed to be any rhyme or reason to the instructor's methods anyway.

It wasn't until Freed arrived at the stately room tucked far into a large tower at the head of the manor that he remembered he wouldn't be studying with Doran today.  
"Good morning, Freed." There, in full regalia, was the Master. Seated in a high-backed chair at a large desk, Terrel Justine offered a calm smile to his son which belied the seething anger that roiled in his voice. "How good of you to join us today. Please, step forward. Your mother would like to have a word with you." He motioned to a plush carpeted space in front of his desk, clear but for a single occupied chair; Freed's mother, silent as night, only nodded from her seat when mentioned. Something about her demeanor, the way her shoulders sagged and how she didn't seem to fill her chair completely, caused Freed to rethink the whole scenario. For a scant second he found himself wishing he was back in his uncle's care.

"Yes, Father," he said obediently as he complied, shuffling to his mother's side. Even as he tried to shoot the battered woman a glance, she wouldn't meet his gaze.  
"Do you know why you are here today, Freed?" Despite his earlier words, it was clear there would only be one speaker.  
"To further my education and-"  
"Oh no, not this time," Terrel interjected. He rose from his seat and circled around the desk in measured strides, coming to a stop behind his wife and child, a firm hand resting on each of their shoulders. "You've had your chance, Freed. I gave you time to study and learn, let you play with my brother and his little games…" his hands clenched as he spoke, fingers digging into flesh. "There is a magic that runs in our family, one that you are fortunate to be gifted with. Yet to this day you have not once tapped your full potential. We are going to change that. Tell me, boy, what have you learned of magic so far?"

The sudden question caught Freed unaware. In truth, he had learned much about the basic elements that made up what was defined as magic, how it affected the body and mind, as well as the myriad ways mages put it to use. But for his father to bring the subject up, only one school of magic could be of interest.  
"Dark Script. The runes of establishment. These are magics that allow the caster to see the rules that bind the universe and impose their will upon reality. With but a word a mage can cause any number of effects in their target, ranging from physical sensation and growth to mental boons or anguish. It works by enforcing the caster's own knowledge of each individual rune, backed by his latent magical power and strength of will," the boy recited as if reading from a textbook, the definitions and applications long since burned into his mind.  
"Yes, yes, we all know you can read," Terrel responded harshly and removed his hand from Freed's shoulder to pin the boy with an expectant glare. "More specifically, what happened yesterday; what did you learn from your fight with Doran?"  
Freed stiffened, the wounds inflicted upon him yesterday all twinging as attention was called to them. "Wh-What do you mean? I thought I did-"  
"No, you didn't!" Terrel's voice cracked out like thunder, following his fist through the air to cut Freed's defenses short. It struck his son's jaw and and sent the boy crashing to the floor, earning a loud smack when the back of his head hit the desk behind him. Freed had to bite down on his tongue to keep from crying out - any sound from him now would only enrage his father further. "You never think, Freed! You had one chance to perform the simplest fucking spell, finally make something of yourself, and you screwed that up!"

This tirade, the constant pain in his back, the newfound ache in his jaw and head, it was all too much for Freed. A choked whimper escaped him as he sought escape of his own, scrambling back to get under the desk. It wasn't until his father went quiet and turned to him with a slow smile that he knew there could be no retreat.

"You know what I think, Freed?"  
Silence. This seemed to be the right answer, as Terrel stood behind Therese - who had so far made no move to interrupt or interject - and again clasped her shoulder. His other hand went to a small scabbard around his thigh.  
"I think you don't know what pain is." It was said simply, quietly, like it was the most obvious fact in the world. Just as easily he took a knife from its sheath and held it against the trembling woman's neck. Freed's eyes were arrested by the streak of ruby-stained silver that slowly pressed into his mother's flesh. He could hear the moment her skin broke, see the blade plunge in with ease. Blood poured from the gash like a cork sprung free when the knife was pulled out. None of it, not the flood of crimson, the wet gurgling that welled up from Therese's throat, her widened glassy eyes, the demented smile on Terrel's face and the almost mirthful glint in his eye as he continued to tear into her, could compare to the sound of terror when Freed's mind finally snapped.

"I know… Darkness," Freed whispered, holding his father's gaze.  
"Excellent!" Terrel responded as he released his dying wife, her purpose already served. "Yes, I think you're ready. You-" This time it was Terrel who was cut short when a crackling orb of black energy shot past his head, narrowly burning the side of his cheek. Too slow to react, he could only stand with his mouth agape as his victorious grin was replaced by a frown of confusion. The fear that should have broken his son was missing. Instead he could see only a blank mask and swirling purple runes that clawed their way out of Freed's glowing right eye.  
"I know," the boy repeated. He stood carefully, emerging from his hiding spot and, for the first time in his life, forcing his father to retreat from his advance. Pain, bright and searing; horror that leeched the very light from his soul; hatred for anything and everything crawled upon this earth; all of it coalesced into a burning knot deep in his gut from which he drew the strength he previously lacked.

"Yami no Ecriture; Darkness!" Freed said with the same chill intensity that Terrel before him exhibited. This time, however, a wave of magic rode out on the words. Runes flared to life on his chest, initiating a grim transformation. What then launched itself at Terrel, roaring with a lust for blood, was no longer Freed but a demon born of all the world had wrought on him. The demon threw a right-handed punch at Terrel, carrying with it a pulse of caustic black mist. A clawed fist impacted with the man's jaw with such force that sent him flying back into the far wall. The dark mist clung to Terrel's skin and seeped into his clothes, steadily corroding away at any exposed bit of flesh. There was no time for him to scream or run, as the demon leaped on top of him, enshrouded in that abysmally dark aura.

Several hours passed before the transformation wore off and Freed came to his senses, for a moment unsure as to what had just transpired. The study lay in ruins, its walls smashed open and the roof blown clear off. Visible through the holes in the walls, the rest of the manor was naught but collapsed rubble. This lone tower was all that was left standing.  
Not far from where Freed stood, he could see his mother's body sprawled out on the floor in a pool of her own blood, her chair upturned. That on its own was nearly enough to make the boy nauseous, but a trail of red lead his eyes off to the side where it mingled with another. His father's body was…

Everywhere. Blood coated the walls and stained the carpet, while some even dripped from what small sections of ceiling remained. His limbs, torn and strewn across the floor, his chest caved in and torn wide open, and his mangled face, entirely unrecognizable.  
For a minute, all Freed could do was stare. Such a gruesome scene, surely it was impossible… But one glance at his bloodied, bruised hands, and he knew.  
He did this.  
Hot tears burned their way down his cheeks, and at long last, Freed cried. He collapsed in the midst of death, his wails echoing over his ruined cage.


	4. Chapter 4

A young man walked down an old road, his feet kicking up dust that caught the light of dawn. In his hand he clutched a crumpled piece of paper, a flyer for a job request with a stylized "S" emblazoned across the top.  
Laxus Dreyar, off to his very first S-Class quest.  
And it was not off to a good start.  
A localized storm cloud followed the boy, occasional bolts of lightning striking grown men who ran past him fleeing in terror - not from him, but from the ruined mansion in the distance that he approached. He was supposed to be destroying a dark guild, but the client failed to mention that guild was already in a state of panic. Just as Laxus was beginning to question if he was even in the right place one of the fleeing mages ran up to him, took hold of his collar, and frantically shook him around.  
"Turn back! He's loose! They're all dead and he's loose!" the mage raved, spittle flying with every word. Laxus backhanded the man and wrenched himself free of his grip, but the mage fled as soon as they were separated.  
"What the hell…?" Laxus asked of himself, more disturbed than anything. What in the world could have frightened these mages so? He should have been the scary one here! But even with the new questions brought up, one was answered; the guild mark of Yami Yama had been clearly imprinted across his assailant's face.  
He had found his target. Within that guild he was supposed to crush, something was horribly wrong.  
With newly strengthened resolve, Laxus continued toward the ruins he was hired to destroy.

"Hey kid, are you alright?"  
An unfamiliar voice wormed its way into Freed's mind, gently pulling him back to consciousness. "Un..?"  
"C'mon, wake up. What're you doing in a place like this?"  
What was he… doing? He was at his lessons, of course. What else would he be doing? But that wasn't the voice of the messenger, nor his father or uncle or anyone he knew… Curious, Freed opened his eyes and was greeted by a strange face. A healthy glow, a jagged, bolt-shaped scar crossing the right eye, pupils the colour of sky, and golden, spiky hair. But most of all, this face lacked the scornful glare and hateful scowl that he was used to seeing.

Now that couldn't be right. Nobody had ever looked concerned for him before. This had to be a test, some sort of construct or thought projection sent to confuse him.  
And it was working. Determined not to give his captors the satisfaction of victory, Freed reached out and pressed his hand into the apparition's scarred cheek, just to prove it wasn't real and he wasn't scared.  
But it was real. Real and soft and squishy.  
And even worse, he could see the blood staining his own hand.

Freed recoiled as his memories came flooding back all at once. The pain, the death, the murder at his own hands, and now this person here to punish him…  
"G-Get back!" Freed cried and scuttled away, but there was no escape, only another wall behind him. "I'm sorry! I didn't m-mean to! Please don't hurt me…" He cowered, huddled in a ball on the floor, arms curled over his head, and braced for impact. But instead of the blow he was expecting, Freed felt a soft touch between his shoulders. He jerked at the contact, then slowly relaxed when no harm came of it. A hand on his back, holding him steady.  
"I'm not gonna hurt you, kid," the strange youth said. It was a preposterous idea, but there was an odd earnestness in the voice that inclined Freed to listen further. "My name is Laxus. I'm from Fairy Tail. I was sent to put an end to whatever shitfest was going on here, but it looks like someone already beat me to it."  
Freed peeked out from under his arms to see Laxus watching him, the barest flicker of a concerned smile tugging at his lips. It was small, almost nonexistent, but it meant the world to the younger boy. It was a light that brightened the room, a ray of hope that maybe he could finally be free from his hell. Maybe it was safe.

"…Freed. M'name's Freed," he mumbled by way of introduction and uncurled himself to sit up. As an afterthought, he gestured toward the bodies just beyond Laxus. "Those are my parents. Um, I killed the Master… I didn't mean to get in the way of your job. I'm sorry. You're not mad?"  
The simple apology seemed to affect Laxus more than Freed had expected. Surprise registered first, then disbelief, then something that Freed couldn't place. Sorrow? Resignment? The older boy looked over the carnage behind him as if truly seeing it for the first time.  
After a silent minute he rose and extended a hand to Freed, resolve set in his eyes. "Come on. I'm getting you out of here, Freed. You're coming to Fairy Tail with me."  
The order caught Freed off guard. Laxus was angry about something, but for once it was not directed at him. He was still unsure, but at this point anything was better than sticking around here.  
Freed took hold of Laxus' hand, and they were gone, carried away in the form of lightning.


End file.
